


Tear Up Your Pavements

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [12]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bahorel/R week, Boxing, M/M, One Shot, no one dies because I was told no one was allowed to die, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cat prompted me for Bahorel/R week;</p>
<p>"The first time Bahorel gets R into boxing and he realises he's good at this, he likes this, and everyone is happy and no one dies. Smut totally optional."</p>
<p>So, Bahorel teaches R to box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Up Your Pavements

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I haven't written Bahorel/R before! I had fun with this, I may write more...

“Seriously, don’t knock it til you’ve tried it,”

R raised his eyebrow at his boyfriend has he shrugged into a t-shirt, enjoying how it rubbed over the scratch marks on his shoulders. Bahorel was still rubbing himself down with a towel, his dark flesh hazing pink while water droplets clung to the long strands of the top of his undercut.

“If I wanted you to beat me half to death I’d have told you that Phantom Menace is better than Empire Strikes Back,” he joked, shifting into his jeans. Bahorel grinned at him, advancing across the room, strong hands reaching to cup R’s face before kissing his cheek in a mafia-boss gesture.

“Because you are uncommonly good at sucking cock, I will forgive you this one time,” he growled softly into Grantaire’s ear, making the man shiver, all the hairs on the back of his neck rising in the best possible way. He only just managed to contain a needy whine when Bahorel stepped away again, leaving him bereft.

As he pulled on a wife-beater he turned back to R.

“I mean it, you should give it a try. You might actually enjoy it.”

+

Grantaire and Bahorel had been fucking now for two months. The first time had been casual; two guys in a bar sharing drinks and sob stories about bad dates and crap dates and hysterical dates. Then Bahorel had followed R into the gent’s bathroom and pushed him against the door, bruising his lip in the most gloriously rough kiss R had ever had. Bahorel had paid the bar bill while R had flagged down a cab. 

They’d gone back to Bahorel’s apartment, even though R’s was closer. He didn’t want Eponine pulling her cheerleading routine like she normally did when he brought someone back to their shared flat.

They had barely made it through the door before Bahorel had him pinned against a wall, teeth in his neck, hands like a vice at his waist and the glorious scent of sweat and musk and heat that just made Grantaire’s mouth water. His fingers had explored, delighted to find Bahorel’s pierced nipples.

Bahorel had been surprisingly tender with his prep and R could have wept with the sinful things that man could do with his tongue, lapping at his entrance, opening him up, while all he could do was whine and claw at the sheets and wonder why the fuck it had taken a whole year of friendship before it occurred to either of them that this could be a good idea; that together they were a brilliant idea.

And then finally, _finally_ , Bahorel had held him in place, slowly pushing forward, giving him time to adjust to the sensation of being filled so perfectly. After a moment, when it was just beginning to be too much, Bahorel had pulled out before fucking back into him hard and deep.

He’d held R by the chest, keeping him upright for a few moments as he thrust into him before they both toppled forward, Bahorel’s hot breath gasping against his neck. R groaned under the weight of the man, enjoying being crushed into the sheets, everything about sensation. He knew he would bruise. He knew he would treasure those bruises.

Bahorel had fucked him and R had loved every second of it. He’d come with a loud groan, spending into the sheets, before lying pinned beneath Bahorel as the guy continued to fuck into him, holding his hips up and using him before finally slamming into him one last time, a muffled oath on his lips.

In the morning R had woken sticky, sore and covered in bite marks. He knew then that he wanted to wake this way every morning for as long as he was allowed.

He was allowed most nights. And most mornings. They had fallen into a strange little routine which had been surprisingly domestic considering they were two of the least domestic people in their group. They got each other coffee, they made each other breakfast. R already knew Bahorel’s preferred pizza order and Bahorel had turned up at R’s studio three times last week with sandwiches to make sure they guy remembered to eat while finishing his commission. 

It had raised a few eyebrows at first but by and large there seemed to be sincere, if slightly bemused, approval at this new relationship. Bahorel had heard Bossuet and Joly discussing how much brighter Grantaire was these days and was relieved that they were happy about it, knowing how protective they were about their friend. Meanwhile Courfeyrac nearly had a heart attack when Bahorel turned up to their ten o’clock Environmental Law lecture. Bahorel had, somewhat defensively, claimed that he’d given R a lift with some of his canvases so it made sense to actually attend the class for once. Courf had raised his eyebrows but knew better than the press the point if he valued his front teeth remaining in situ.

The only time Bahorel kicked Grantaire out of bed was Thursdays and Saturdays. Those were Boxing days and they were absolutely not up for negotiation. Grantaire had tried for all of one minute before recognising the troubled storm clouds brewing in Bahorel’s eyes and he had swiftly backed off. Now it was all part of the routine; getting out of bed, maybe sharing a shower, then he would go and amuse himself for a few hours while Bahorel went and battered the shit out of someone, or whatever it was he did down the gym.

Bahorel had asked him to go with him last Saturday and Grantaire had politely refused. He hadn’t been to the gym in a long time and he wasn’t sure he was ready to embarrass himself in front of Bahorel like that, not when it was clearly something the guy was very passionate about. Whatever this was between them, this new relationship, it was warm and it was comfortable and exciting and Grantaire had absolutely no desire whatsoever to sabotage that by having Bahorel look at him in disappointment because it was something he cared about and Grantaire was crap at it.

He had asked again on Thursday and R had groaned, pulling the duvet up over his head. Bahorel had gently extracted him, giving him a look but not pressing the point any further. Now it was Saturday again. Bahorel had fucked him in the shower, the water pouring over them as he was pressed up against the cold tiles.

Now he was warm and relaxed and Bahorel was looking at him, his head on one side. He fidgeted under the gaze, looking anywhere other than the man before him.

“Look, I just want you to try it. If you don’t like it then fine, I’ll never bring it up again. But I’d like to share this with you. I think you’ll be good at it,” he said, in the most sincere tone R had ever heard the man use. His defence mechanism kicked in and he snorted, winding his fingers in the bedsheets.

“What the hell gave you that impression?” he muttered, somewhat petulantly, the back of his neck feeling hot. He really didn’t want to row about this. Why couldn’t Bahorel just leave it alone?

“Because I’ve seen you down three pints and at least four shots, and then dodge a punch thrown by a guy who was scarily sober when he thought you were coming on to his girlfriend,” Bahorel responded levelly. Grantaire looked up then, scrunching his nose.

“You were there for that?” The episode in question had been about six months ago. The details were hazy, but from what he understood a girl had misidentified him as having harassed her at the bar and the bloke had taken exception. The bartender had verified that Grantaire was not the guy responsible, but that had been after the punch had been thrown – and dodged. 

Now it was Bahorel’s turn to snort.

“How the fuck did you think you got home?” Bahorel turned away then, pulling on some jogging trousers, the subject apparently dropped.

Grantaire mused. This was important to Bahorel. Barohel wanted to share it with him. He took a deep breath.

“Fine, I’ll come. But I’ll need you to lend me some trews or something because, from what I remember, jeans and gyms don’t mix.”

The grin Bahorel gave him, his face lit up like it was the best thing Grantaire had ever said to him, made him ache in his chest. Mercifully his blushes were spared when the guy chucked some spare kit at him. It was miles too big but the scent of Bahorel was comforting. Grantaire allowed himself to be dragged to the gym.

+

“Relax your hands,” Bahorel instructed, his face intense, his eyes focused.

Grantaire took a moment to study Bahorel’s face, enjoying being the subject of that burning gaze. He allowed Bahorel’s hands to guide him into place, to correct his stance, manipulating his hips and putting a certain amount his pressure on his back, improving his posture.

Bahorel was a good teacher. He was patient, he was thorough and he was dedicated. There was no room for fooling about. They were in close proximity, achingly close, but Grantaire would never dream of breaking trust and mucking about. Besides, he was far too engrossed in the lesson.

Bahorel showed him how to breathe properly, a concept that he would have laughed at heartily outside of the serious atmosphere in the gym. His smoker’s lungs fared surprisingly well, all things considered.

He lined up his arms properly, he concentrated on the placement of his feet, his fingers pressed together, preparing to clench on impact.

They had started with some basic block moves; slipping, ducking, bobbing and weaving. As Bahorel had suspected, Grantaire was good at those. Heaven knows he'd had to get out of the way of an impending fist often enough on a night out, not just that one episode Bahorel had witnessed. The lesson refined those instinctive moves, gave them direction and control.

Then Bahorel moved on to some punches, starting with the Jab. Bahorel moved him, getting him to bring his elbows in tight, teaching him to twist at the end, but to keep his hips straight. Once he got the hang of it, Bahorel moved on to the cross punch, the hook and then the uppercut. 

With each move, Bahorel took him through it, demonstrating it with pads, Grantaire enjoying the sensation of Bahorel’s energy directed at him, feeling the strength of it through the protective gear, grateful that he wasn’t on the receiving end for real. Then he had the chance, first sloppily or tentatively, then repeated over and over until Bahorel was satisfied with his efforts.

Two hours flashed by and R’s body was singing. It was exhilarating. His movements were getting smoother and Bahorel was laughing, not at him but with him, growling with pride every time R managed to get a hit.

Part of him knew Bahorel was going easy on him. He’d seen Bahorel flatten a guy with one blow but he managed to swallow his paranoia. He trusted Bahorel, trusted the guy not to humour him. Sure enough, just a moment later he threw a dud jab, twisting his hip and Bahorel called him on it immediately, correcting his posture and having him repeat the move over and over until it was instinct.

Finally Bahorel stepped back, eyes black, a broad grin on his face as he ruffled Grantaire’s hair.

“Not bad for a guy who smokes rollies,” he complimented, turning to return the pads to the cupboard and grabbing his towel. Grantaire rolled his eyes but he couldn’t stop his treacherous cheeks from smiling back. He had to admit, he felt pretty good.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow,” he grumbled half-heartedly, following the guy back into the changing rooms, heading for the showers.

“So, come with me on Thursday, stretch your muscles and get them used to it,” Bahorel shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. R stopped, wrinkling his forehead. He found that he wanted to, for sure. He had really enjoyed today. But would Bahorel want him to take up all his gym time? Surely he’d get bored of having R trail after him, pulling him down, holding him back…

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, stop.”

Bahorel was there, strong grounding hands on his shoulders. Sweat glistened at the base of his neck and R was struck with the desire to lick it off. He forced his eyes up, to look at Bahorel right in the eyes.

“You wouldn’t mind? With me not being very good…” he muttered, trying to keep the tone light but it was obvious Bahorel wasn’t fooled.

“Do I ever do anything I don’t want?” Bahorel replied, his face set, eyebrow raised. Grantaire had to smile then, he couldn’t help it. 

The hands on his shoulders moved up possessively to his neck and Bahorel leaned in, harsh and warm like that first time, the kiss sending a powerful surge of breathless lust to his gut. He responded eagerly, not caring that they were in public; that they were in a changing room. He whined as Bahorel pulled back.

“Get your clothes on,” Bahorel growled quietly into his ear. “We’ll shower at home.”

Grantaire shivered at the promise in Bahorel’s voice.


End file.
